


5150

by PBJellie



Category: South Park
Genre: AU, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Angst, Foster Care, Gaslighting, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-08 13:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13458804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: Damien, age 18, believing he is the son of Satan is hospitalized. Pip, along with Damien's new treatment team, try to intervene. Sometimes other patients have different ideas.Previously titled Malus Peior Pessimus.





	1. Hospital

“Don't fret, old chap,” Pip sat cross legged in a faded, blue, clothe chair. He stared at the crests and valleys on the heart monitor; the consistency lulling him into comfort. Not that there was much comfort to be found in this sterile room. 

“It was an offering for Father,” Damien's voice trembled. “I did not, did not try to kill myself.” 

“Damien,” Pip warned, unfurling himself from his chair. His trainers squeaked as he stretched, a short, sharp squeal. “We have talked about this. I met your mother, remember?” 

“I am the Dark Lord! Don't insult me!” He reached to pull at the plastic tubes in his arm. He was cuffed. His thin wrists banged against the cold metal of the bed rails. 

“Honey, you had an incident when you arrived.”

Damien knew he wasn't honey. Estella was honey. Damien could hear him scream that she was his honey, his baby, his oh God, please. The headboard and the living room shared a wall. The Prince of Darkness was relegated to an hand-me-down Ikea couch. 

“I command thee!” He tried to concentrate his powers, but his head felt fuzzy. He couldn't burn the thick straps. Father would be disappointed. 

Disappointment was why Father had never retrieved him. 

“They're going to take you some place lovely,” Pip twisted the white toe of his sneaker on the floor, refusing to make eye contact. “I know I said that when I left the Weatherhead's, but this is different.” 

“Don't speak of them,” Damien hissed, back arching of the bed as far as the restraints would allow. “Accursed names, thou shalt not utter a curse.” 

“Mate, they can't hurt you. These people are different. You're going to get to ride in an ambulance. Twice in a week, isn't that splendid? Remember? When we first met? You were so cute, with your front teeth missing. You asked me if you could play with the ambalamps,” Pip chuckled, still squeaking his shoe.

“Mother pushed me down the steps. She knew I displeased Father. Punishment makes for strong men.” 

Damien could remember hands on his back, propelling him forward. The trailer had four cinder block steps. The wind made the tips of his ears feel cold as his shins scraped the second stair. His mouth caught the edge of the bottom step, causing his front teeth to be dislodged. Mother had said that his father was the devil. That made him a demon, she screamed, pressing her sandal into his back. 

When the man with the tan dog, the one that pressed it's snarling mouth through the chain length fence, peeled him off the steps, all Damien could think about was his father. 

His father was the devil. He was a demon. Demons must be powerful, and powerful was important. 

Damien knew he was someone important as he talked with the smiling man in the denim jacket. He knew his father would find him. The court couldn't find his father, but Father had a plan. Damien had to live among the humans.

He wasn't afraid anymore. There was no reason for a demon to be afraid. Demons were scary.

Once Damien mastered the rituals of human kinship, then Father would take him home. Earth would make him strong. Earth would train him into the ruthless leader Hell needed. 

The hospital was a way for Father to punish him for his insolence. He should not have tried to call Father. Father would make himself know when Damien was worthy.

Damien was not worthy.

“Honey, you are the best little brother in the world,” Pip was touching his face, the soft pads of his thumbs wiping something wet from Damien's cheeks. Was he crying? “And you can come home as soon as you're well. I'll have my mum save you a spot at our game night. We can all go together, Estella too. Mum is quite nice.” 

“Humans need mothers,” Damien spat, shaking his head of of Pip's grip. “I only need Father! Father will come for me! Father has not abandoned me!” 

“Shh,” Pip whispered intertwining their fingers. “You're upset. I shouldn't talk about parents. I know better. I'm a crummy brother, huh?” 

Damien did think that he was a crummy brother. A blonde couple had adopted him. They were going to live together, forever. Damien was going to give Pip a special seat in Hell, so they would always be close. Twelve year old Pip got to leave behind that house. He left behind the Dr. Pepper. He left behind the kids who hated him. He left behind the Weatherhead's. 

And, most of all, he left behind Damien. 

No one came for Damien. Father never came. He turned eighteen, four months ago, and he was pushed down the steps, again. Pip had given him an address in one of his short letters. Pip had a girlfriend. Pip graduated high school. Pip rented an apartment. Damien wandered around the city for a week, looking for the address. 

No human wanted to help a demon.

It was good that demons did not feel hungry. He just told himself that he didn't need to eat. He didn't need to sleep, either. He was a fierce and powerful demon. Cold doesn't effect demons. Being a demon made him invincible.

“No,” Damien said after Pip sniffled. Damien knew Pip was okay with lies if they made him happy.

“I tried to get them to take you, too. And when they said they only wanted one, I begged them to take you instead. You were younger. Younger is better, right? People want the five-year-olds, we know that.” Pip was still holding his hand. Pip was the only human who ever touched him. 

“Father wants me,” Damien said, stiffening his wrist. 

“You were so cute, even with your broken arm and missing teeth. I would have snatched you up. Five year old you and the ambalamps.” Pip wouldn't let him go. 

“Not that cute, apparently. Humans don't care for me,” Damien tried to sound detatched. “Father knew that love makes you weak, so you had to leave.” 

“Oh, I love you, too. I'm so sorry,” Pip's eyes were leaking. He wasn't even bothering to hide it. 

“Ambulance is ready,” a gruff voice called from the hallway. 

“I'll visit, and you can call. Call me, okay?” Damien nodded as the bed was wheeled out of the room. 

Even though Damien knew that phone calls were not a luxury that the Anti-Christ could take, lest he go soft.


	2. Night One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some unfavorable portrayals of characters you know and love.

The EMS workers did not smile at him, not even once. Demons did not rely on the kindness of humans. It did not matter to Damien. 

A tall woman, with a beehive of red hair sternly stood in front of the gurney as he was removed from the ambulance. Her arms were crossed. 

“And you must be Damien?” Her words were curt, consonants popping as she glared. 

Pip taught him how to answer questions, when he was new. He needed the information to blend in with the humans. His goal was to assimilate, undetected, then rise up when Father called for him. 

“I can't be certain,” he whispered, looking at the ground. She wore matte black shoes which clicked when she impatiently tapped her foot. 

“I'm in no mood for games, young man. Are you Damien Thorn?” Her chest fell as her nostrils flared. Damien averted his eyes, opting to look at the white straps around his wrists. There was thick gauze peeking through the restraints. This strings seemed to be unraveling as he stared. It must have been his powers. 

“I don't know,” he repeated, feeling the bed start to move. At least he had the dignity of being upright. Supine was an especially vulnerable position for humans. Not that he was human, but appearances were important. 

He must not appear vulnerable. 

“Wheel him in. Does he have a wristband?” 

“I don't know,” Damien said anxiously. Nothing good ever came from multiple questions. He wanted Pip. Pip allowed him to simply tell the truth. There was no need for the formalities of uncertainties, only to be followed by the traditional human anger.

“Not you, obviously not you. To admissions, before I get anymore gray hair.” Damien did not see any gray in the pile of hair on her head. He snuck a look at her face as he was moved through glass double doors. Maybe she was old, her eyes had wrinkles in the corners, cascading to her temples like spiderwebs. She glared, clicking her tongue in disdain while he stared. He ducked his head down.

Her eyes were the same shade of green as Mrs. Weatherhead's. 

“Feeling alright?” A deep voice called from behind him. 

“I don't know,” Damien said softly. His stomach hurt. He had learned the first year of school, first grade when the bus picked him up from that dark house he and all the other kids lived at, that demons had a tendency to get carsick. 

“Another weird one,” the female in a pressed white uniform laughed. She pulled the foot of his bed, swinging around corners as he slid through the hallways. 

“Hush,” the man behind his head scorned, “he's sick. You don't have to be such a bitch.” 

“We're not supposed to curse in front of patients. Lord knows I don't want to be CC'ed on another email, because you couldn't keep your fat trap shut.” 

“Look,” the man placed a hand on Damien's shoulder, causing him to flinch, “hey kid, you gonna rat on me for a curse word?” 

“It is impossible to know,” he said nervously, folding himself in half to avoid the touch, 

“See, we're golden,” the man chuckled, pulling his hand back. 

“What planet are we on?” The woman snorted, jolting the bed to the left. Damien was silent. 

“Kid, go ahead, let her know,” the man hadn't stopped laughing. 

“I can't be certain,” Damien said, eyes fixed on his calf. He wanted to ask Father why demons grew leg hair. The coarse black stuff seemed like a liability. He'd burned a patch before he left that house, to test for flammability. His hair did indeed burn. 

“Garrison is gonna have a trip with this one.” 

“You two didn't bring me another tard, did you?” A man in green scrubs huffed, the top of his head reflecting the fluorescent light. Brown hair circled around, hanging a bit past his ears. 

“What color is that white wall?” The man asked, taking the straps off of Damien's wrists. The gauze stayed, fastened together with yellow tape. 

“Dunno,” he responded quickly, pulling his arms inward. 

“Fucking swell, hope your bus gets t-boned for this shit. Let's get intake started. Off the bed,” the balding man took a clipboard from the woman, scanning it with a gloved finger. “Damien. Is that your name?” 

“I don't know,” Damien said, swinging his legs over the side. As he stood up he realized that his gown was backless. 

“Wonderful,” the man in scrubs replied, rolling his eyes as the others left with the bed. 

“Take that gown off, gotta make sure your crazy ass doesn't have a knife or something.” 

Damien followed instructions, letting the thin material slide off his shoulders. The back had never been tied. The man mumbled something as he wrote on a clipboard. Damien found his eyes sweeping the room to find the keg.

He didn't remember saying anything wrong, but in Damien's experience humans were fickle. There were too many customs for an outsider to ever keep up with. Father sent him, his son, so that he could master these oddities.

“Great,” there was no hose to Damien's surprise. His shoulders fell slightly, as he rocked back onto the heels of his feet. “It looks like you have clothes. Can you put them on?” 

“I can't be certain,” Damien stared at the pile by the door. They did not seem like his clothes. He leaned over to pick them up, stepping into a pair of gray sweatpants. They were Pip's. The soft shirt, white with the Union Jack on the front was also his. Damien had two plain black shirts, three pairs of underwear, a pair of dark jeans, and two sets of socks. One of the socks had a hole in the toe, but socks were in short supply. 

“At least you goddamn understand me,” the man was leafing through paper as Damien slipped into the shirt. “I had to basically pin Meth Mouth down just to get him dressed.” 

Damien looked at the peel and stick tiles on the floor, linoleum with black and white checkers. He picked at the gauze, rocking back to his tiptoes to keep Pip's pants from dragging on the floor. People had so few clothes; he didn't want to destroy Pip's sweats.

“Let's just say we did the questions. Seems like you won't know any of the answers anyway. Can you sign some bullshit paperwork?”

“I don't know,” he picked up the pen, regardless, scribbling where the gloved finger pressed. 

“Sign here if we can call, what is this name? Pip, what a lame name. Sign if we can call Pip and share our medical stuff.” 

Damien did, watching the man lower the clipboard. 

“Follow me, your roommate is Meth Mouth,” the man spoke quickly as he hurried down the hall. Damien struggled to keep up. Demons were shorter than most people. He was only 5'6”. Pip told him that he still had time to grow, that boys grew longer than girls. Damien wasn't sure how that applied for the spawn of Satan. 

“He's the fucking worst,” the man continued, opening a metal door with a name card. “So prepare yourself for that. This is the male unit. Five bedrooms, two beds in each, which makes for a total of ten. You'd have been able to do that math yourself, if I didn't think you were slow.” 

The room was a stark white. White on the walls, the floor, and on the ceiling tiles. Two circle tables sat on the side of the room, with five seats around each. Their blue plastic backs were cracking, and Damien would guess that underneath each paint splattered table there would be a mass of unpleasant items. 

They walked past two old black couches, situated in a right angle from a wall mounted TV. There was a card with what seemed to be a few puzzles, a copy of Scrabble, and four books. Damien nearly ran into the man when he stopped in front of a doorway. There was no door in this doorway, just the trim painted a bright red. 

“Tweek, you got a roommate. Try not to be a total freak, this kid doesn't talk much.” 

“Herbert Garrison. Herbert Garrison!” A tall man with gray blonde hair shouted while standing on top of a bed. The bed, as did the twin, had a mattress, a blanket, sheets, and two pillows. 

“Basically not this.”

“They know your true name. They will hunt and find you! Herbert Garrison!” The man was still screaming, bearing his partially rotted teeth in a snarl. 

“I fucking hope so,” Garrison replied. “At least I wouldn't have to see you every quarter.” 

“They see you! Herbert Garrison!” The man walked over, sniffing in Garrison's direction. “They can smell your fear!” 

“Damien, this is Tweek. The made bed is yours. Wake up is at seven. Get some sleep. Goodnight,” Garrison walked towards the exit as Damien stared at Tweek. 

“They will find you tonight,” Tweek hissed. “Goodnight, Herbert Garrison.” 

“Sheila will be in momentarily to give you another dose of Haldol, or whatever the fuck we're using to calm your methed out brain down. Goodnight, you crazy motherfucker.” 

Damien stood in the middle of the room, slowly walking backwards towards his bed. 

“What is your name?” The man asked, hands pulling on his hair. 

“I don't know,” Damien responded, slipping between the blankets. They were not as soft as at Pip's apartment, but they were much softer than at that house. 

“Good,” Tweek laughed, falling onto his bed. “If you don't know, they can't either.” 

There was a cackling sounds as the bed creaked. How was he supposed to sleep with the light on? Wheels squeaked in the hallways as Damien pulled the blanket over his face. 

“Mr. Tweek, Garrison told me to bring you another round of anti-psychotics. Is that what you need?” Damien peaked out from the blankets; the same nurse from outside was pushing a metal cart. 

“Mrs. Sheila, I won't say your whole name, so they won't know. They can't find you if you keep your name secret.” 

“Let me page for Herbert,” Sheila unzipped something, then pressed a button on the cart. 

“No!” Tweek shrieked, jumping out of bed. “I don't! I'm clean! I'm clean!” Damien rolled out of bed, ripping the blanket from the corners, as he slid under the bed. He and Pip had found that demons regained their power if they hid in the dark. Human yelling was very draining to demons. 

“Mr. Tweek, this isn't a street drug,” Sheila sighed. Damien pulled the blanket over his face, trying to recharge faster. 

“I don't know is too close to them! I have to help him!” More screaming. 

“Mr. Tweek, we are not going to touch other patients. You know the rules. Just lean over the bed; the shot won't take but a second.” Damien shivered as he heard a crash. 

“Pinning meth heads to beds is the whole reason I became a CNA.” 

“Not a meth head! I don't do that anymore! I'm clean! Two years, three months, and seventeen days! That fucking hurts! Herbert Garrison and Sheila Broflovski! Herbert Garrison and Sheila Broflovski! The gnomes know you now! I hope they feast on your flesh!” 

A hand with red painted nails wrapped around Damien's arm. A tug and he was in the middle of the room, blanket around his shoulders. 

“Let's get back on the bed. Do you want a sleeping pill? Dr. Victoria lets new patients have them on the first night.” Sheila had turned back toward the cart, knocking pill bottles around. 

“I don't know,” Damien whispered, staring wide eyed at the pale of Tweek's ass. His pants were at his knees as he leaned onto the bed. 

“Don't do it,” Tweek warned, hiking his pants up around his waist. “They're addictive.”

“One won't hurt him,” Sheila chided as Garrison stomped out of the room. Damien was handed two paper cups, one with water, and another with a yellow pill. He coughed trying to swallow it. He had never taken a pill before. Maybe demons weren't good at taking pills. 

“Not even once,” Tweek mumbled as he pulled the blanket over his face. 

“Do you need anything else?” Sheila asked, pushing the cart out of the room. 

“I don't know,” he said, staring at the ceiling. 

“Goodnight,” she huffed. 

Damien heard Tweek mumbling about the dangers of drugs as he drifted off to sleep.


	3. Night One Continued

“Craig, you have to get up!” Someone shrieked as they vehemently shook Damien from side to side. 

He stifled a groan, covering his face with his forearms and tucking his knees into his torso. This was a common way to wake up, or it had been. It was hard to focus on where, and for that matter when, he was. Did Father send him back to that house to teach him a lesson? Was there a secret to humanity that he failed to glean from that place? 

“Craig!” More shouting. He curled in on himself tighter, willing the presence to leave. “Craig! Christ, man! Are you, ngh, are you high?” 

Damien was silent. 

“Answer me,” the voice boomed, peeling his hands off the back of his head. “Answer me, you piece of shit!” 

“I don’t know,” he squeaked out, the light burning his eyes as he blinked. 

“God damn it!” A blonde man, the voice was a man, screamed, spit flying out of his mouth. “You had so much time, so much. Does it feel good to blow it like this? I’m so disappointed in you. Man, and you have, you have the gaul, the fucking gaul, to shit on me for lapses in sobriety. You’re, man, you’re no better than me. You’re trash, fucking meth head trash and I hate you.” 

Damien blinked his eyes slowly, knees still shielding his stomach. Pip taught him that. Cover your torso, Damien, so they don’t hurt anything important. When Damien argued, saying he was a demon and there was no way demons, the Anti-Christ, the top demon, was as fragile as a sickly human, Pip said that it was for appearances, so he wouldn’t stick out. 

“Get the fuck up, man.” he said, tongue running over what teeth he had left. “I said,” he accented with a blow to the head, open palmed, “get up!” 

He flinched at the sound of the slap, a harsh crack. It could have been worse, he reassured himself. Father had him in this time and space for a reason. There were lessons to be learned from this man. 

“And where do you get off looking so young? Huh? Can’t even be bothered to answer me?” 

“I don’t know,” he responded, voice doing the typical human tremble. He was so used to what was expected of him that it had become automatic. 

“Proud of yourself?” The man asked, pulling him down onto the ground. He mewled when his elbow banged into the cold floor, which, again was a learned reaction. There was a sharp stinging sensation, which meant Father was sending him a message. He imagined that it read, good job, Son. He couldn’t decode the messages though, he never could. 

“Look at you! The drugs made you short! Do you like who meth makes you? Twenty years of dating, twenty fucking years, man, and you’re willing to just throw it away! Throw me away!” A socked foot kicked at his ribs, jamming toes between his bones. 

He let out the breath the was holding in a hissing cough, tears prickling at his eyes. 

“They fucked up your nose too,” the man grew softer, suspending his foot midair. “And you’re eyes were blue, but now they’re green. How did they do that?” 

“I don’t know, he wheezed, not daring to check what color this man’s eyes were. 

“You’re so pale,” he whispered. “Do you even remember me, Craig?” 

“I don’t know,” he repeated, pulling his hand to block more blows, blows that had not been thrown yet. It’s what a human would do. 

“What happened to your arm!” He shrieked again, dropping to his knees to touch him. This was not how humans touched him, fingers slowly sliding down to stained gauze bandages. It was delicate, like Pip carefully running his hands through his hair when Damien finally found the apartment, tugging out the knots as he hummed about how excited he was to see him. 

“Craig, are you okay?” The man whispered, picking out the metal fasteners. He unwound the gauze, wadding it in his free hand. “Did someone hurt you? People don’t hurt us anymore, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” 

Damien’s mouth went dry as this man, this stranger, peeled off another sheet of gauze, one that stuck to the wound, reopening it. He knew better than to complain of perceived pain. 

“Craig? Craig, this isn’t okay. Did you do this? You’ve never done something like this before. Are you sad?” He kissed at the cut, lips barely wet. No one’s lips had ever touched Damien. That was a human custom he had never been privy to. 

“Why are you wearing this bracelet?” He asked, spinning it in his fingers. “I love you, you idiot. You shouldn’t, man, you shouldn’t hurt yourself.” 

“Are you doing drugs again because you’re sad? Drugs won’t make you not sad, we tried, remember? It didn’t work,” he stared at the bracelet, eyes squinted. 

“I don’t know,” which was almost the truth. He didn’t know, was he sad? Someone had given him drugs last night, hadn’t they? Did he only take them because of negative human emotions? Was this man the lesson not to fall victim to those sorts of things? Did Father dislike sleeping pills? 

“Are you Craig? It’s me, Tweek! Don’t you remember me? You’re looking at me like we’re strangers!” 

“I don’t know!” Damien rose to match his volume with this Tweek person. “I can’t be certain! It’s impossible to know.” 

“This is the hospital, isn’t it? Craig, you’ve never been to the hospital.” 

“I don’t know,” he said softly, pulling his wrist back from the man. 

“You’re a stranger. I kicked a stranger, oh God. They’re going to get me. Man, they’ll be, oh man, they’ll be so, ngh, so mad!” He shouted loudly, weaving his hands through his shaggy hair and giving a few strong looking tugs. “I beat up a sick person, a kid. You’re a kid!” 

“Oh, God! I said you were a piece of shit, didn’t I? I said you were a piece of shit and you tried to kill yourself! Man, kid, you’re not. Well, maybe, ngh, maybe you are, I don’t know you. You’re a stranger. You, man, you might be a piece of shit,” he ranted, chewing on his fignernails. 

He scrambled back onto the bed, pulling the blanket over his face as the man made muffled shrieking sounds. Damien couldn’t tell if it was muffled because of the scratchy hospital blanket, or because the man has trying to swallow his hand. 

“I can, I can make it up to you, man. Want me to make it up to you?” 

“I don’t know,” he said loud enough for it to carry outside of the blanket. 

“Alright, man, alright. Don’t have to play hard to get, not at all. I’ll give you a blow,” the man paused for a moment, then the blanket was removed. Damien scuttled backwards, banging into the wall. “Not Blow though. Blow is bad. Don’t do drugs, man, drugs, uh, drugs feel real good for a litte bit, just a little bit, then, man, kid, they just, kid, they fucking wreck you.” 

Damien trembled as the man’s hands fiddled with the waistband of his sweats. Well, they were Pip’s sweats, but it was hard to focus on that as the man ran his hand over his dick. No one ever touched there. He did, occasionally, usually in the shower, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t electric pulses he could feel in his toes. 

“I knew you were gay,” the man smiled, mouth closed. “I can tell these things, man. I got, what does Craig call it, he calls it something real funny. Craig is funny, he’s my boyfriend. He calls it gaydar, which, man,” he chuckled, hand encircling his dick, “it’s like radar, the stuff they use in like airplanes and shit.” 

“I’m Tweek, by the way. Just Tweek. I don’t need another name. Don’t trying to add anymore names to me, okay? We got to have a deal, man. Don’t, just don’t try to know to much. It ain’t good to snoop. Snitches get stitches, nnn, or something like that,” he mumbled as Damien bucked his hips. God, Tweek’s hand felt good. Why did it feel so good to have someone touch him like this?

Damien panted, face turning red as Tweek sped up his hand. He clinched the sheets in both fists, twisting them as he let out little groans. 

“You like this? Man, you really look like you like this. You’re cute enough, I’d fuck you into a mattress. Don’t people do this all the time?” Tweek reasoned, running his thumb over the head of his penis, moving it in little circles before pulling away. "Guess you're sort of fucked up, with never talking. But, man, sometimes, man, sometimes you just want sex with no one complaining." 

Damien felt the tips of his ears heat up as he thought about getting fucked into the mattress. He didn’t think demons had sexual orientations. He had thought that he wasn’t supposed to have sex with humans, but here was a human, touching him like this. Why would Father send him this man if he wasn’t supposed to do it? 

Lust was a sin. Maybe he wanted to make sure Damien was familiar with the big seven before he could come home. He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as Tweek snuck another hand into his sweats, fondling his balls. 

“Is that you’re oh face? Are you about to come? Really, man? Really?” He laughed as Damien thrust his hips in the air. He felt himself spill over, the front of his pants becoming sticky. “I was gonna blow you and everything, and, man, oh man, you just fucking lost it a handy. You always come so quick?” 

“I don’t know,” he whispered as Tweek pulled his hand away, wiping semen on the bedsheets. 

“It’s alright,” Tweek slurred, clasping him on the back with a snort. “We’re all better now about the fighting, don’t got to tell staff none of that. They, man, they don’t like me much here. A bunch of vultures, fucking, ngh, fucking vultures.” 

“You must be tired, I don’t think, I don’t think it’s morning med time yet, so go back to sleep,” he yawned, slinking back to his bed, where he lined up the blanket in a perfectly straight line before slipping beneath them. “You look tired. Losing a load in your pants can do that to a guy,” he giggled, shoving a pillow over his face. 

“Have goodnight, not Craig.”


	4. Day One: Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah, this is back from the dead. It's a short chapter, but it's something.

“Time to wake up, ya looney tunes,” a familiar voice boomed down the hallway, rattling into the rooms. Damien rubbed his eyes, finding that the light was already on.

It had been on all night.

It didn’t feel like morning to Damien. It felt like he had been roused in the middle of the night, that he was still dreaming. He wasn’t in his own bed, or couch, as his case was. The front of his pants were stuck to him as sat up, reminding him of the time a bully poured glue down his pants.

Oh, he remembered, feeling his face grow hot as he saw the blonde man sleeping in the other bed. He seemed to be out cold, fast asleep as Damien sat against the singular plastic pillow he had been given. That man had touched his penis. And, he rolled his neck, wincing at the stinging sensation, that man attacked his body. 

Father was sending him messages. Messages came in unexpected ways. Pain was a message. Demon’s didn’t feel pain, not typically, but it was a way of communication, as good as anything else he saw. 

Sometimes, if it was an emergency, Father would send something on the television, a story relating to what he was thinking about, so he would know what the proper choice was. So he’d become a fierce demon. 

He rolled his neck again. 

When he was a powered up, Father’s right hand man, he wouldn’t feel these signals. There would be no need, he’d have all the rules memorized. 

“Get up,” the voice shouted causing Damien to flinch inwards. His ribs accepted the message from Father. That was a bad reaction. Flinching was not what he ought to be doing. He stretched out of bed, making notes of what was tolerable for the day, and what was frowned upon. Reaching straight up was a no go, as was touching his toes. 

“Fucking retards, come get your goddamn breakfast before someone else eats it,” the voice, a balding man, the man from intake last night, stood in the doorway, blocking them in. “Hey!” He screamed, voice going too high in pitch. 

Damien huddled in on himself, ignoring the pain. Father sent him Pip, and Pip said to huddle when someone yelled. Fold in on yourself, until there’s hardly any you left. The advice had served him well this far. 

“Fuck off,” the man in the bed next to him groaned. His head lulled to the side as he covered himself with a pillow.

Once the shouting man left, Damien cautiously put a foot on the floor, testing the weight with his toes. Maybe today would be the day he fell through the floor and met his father.

It wasn't. The floor was solid beneath him. 

Maybe tomorrow.

He snuck out of bed, never letting himself fall onto the heels of his feet. He was nimble. He figured all demons were. Quickly, he padded down the hallway, not bothering with socks. His shoes were missing. He didn't have another pair.

“Morning,” a boy, maybe a man, said. He sat at a table in an open area, the place with the puzzles from last night. 

Damien didn't respond. 

“Normally, you're supposed to say morning back,” the boy said, a hood pulled around his face, though the drawstring was missing.Damien stared blankly, perched on his toes. “Guess you're not normal. Not in a place like this.” He said it in a half laugh as cereal slid off his spoon and back into the bowl with a splash. 

A nurse in blue scrubs, a woman, but not the one from last night, had a cart full of trays. She smiled at him. He did not return the favor. He just stood there.

“I'm Kenny,” the man said with a full mouth. “You can sit down, I don't bite. Not unless you're into that.” 

Damien remained standing. 

“Honey,” the nurse sang, her tone soft and light. “How about you have a seat, okay? Do you want cereal or oatmeal?”

“I don't know,” he jittered, falling onto his heels, only to immediately rock back onto his toes.

“Take a seat,” and though she sounded nice, it was clearly an order. He listened to orders. He sat as far away from the other man as he could, eyeing him warily from across the table. The nurse, brown hair framing her face, placed a tray in front of him. 

A breakfast with all the trimmings, juice, milk, an apple, a piece of toast, and, the kicker, one oatmeal and one cereal. He looked at the nurse, who just smiled in return.

“What's your name?” The man across the table asked.

“It's impossible to be certain,” he stammered out, toying with the oatmeal. He preferred warm breakfast to cold breakfast, and in general he preferred warm to cold. He figured it was the preference of all demons. 

“Amnesia, huh,” he stated, with mild interest. “That's a reason to be in here, I suppose. I can't die.” Damien felt his eyebrows raise as he took a bite of oatmeal. It was bland, but warm enough. 

“Yeah, they all make that face,” he chuckled. “But it’s true. I'm here for trying to prove it. I can prove it, you know. It's the truth.” 

Damien looked down into his oatmeal, stirring slowly. He kept his head down as the table began to fill up around him. A fat man, his shirt revealed two rolls of fat as he sank into his seat with a tray. 

“They don't give us enough food here. I fought in the war,” he muttered, pulling an orange cover off of his tray. “No respect for veterans. No respect. None. I didn't serve in the Gulf War to be starved in a state institution.” 

He grumbled a bit more about respect and authority as he shoveled food into his mouth. He was done with his food before Damien had eaten five bites. 

He sat, thick arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes vacant as another man took a seat next to him. They had a silent sort of comradery, wordless nods and head shakes.    
“No respect, Stan,” the fat man said, running a hand through his thinning grey hair. The other man, Stan, nodded. 

“Yep, Eric,” he sighed, visibly deflating. 

“Howdy, Not Craig,” his roommate surprised him, sliding into the seat next to him. “Everyone, this is Not Craig, and I am Tweek. Just Tweek. You don't need anymore names from me. Just Tweek.” 

“Hi, Tweek, like the drug right? Can you get me some?” Kenny asked, resting his elbows on the table. 

“No!” His volume made Damien jump in his seat. “I am not! I don't do that! Not anymore! I'm clean, man, I'm clean. I bet you're with them. You're trying to get me off the wagon. I'm not gonna listen to you, temptress.”

“Temptress?” Kenny laughed. “I just wanted some recreation, geeze.”

Damien could hardly keep his eyes open as the cereal to his left dissolved. His roommate, Tweek, kept shrieking about the horrors of drugs, doing an impromptu this is your brain on drugs presentation by smashing his unopened carton of orange juice with his fist.

Juice splashed onto Damien's shirt. Pip’s shirt that he was wearing. He pushed his tray back, letting his forehead rest against the table as he listened to his roommate rant as Kenny laughed. Occasionally, Eric would interjected about authority and respect. 

His eyelids were too heavy. He let them fall, allowing himself to sleep at the table.


	5. Day One: Psychiatrist Appointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever since I updated this, but I'd figured I'd try to take it in little chunks and get it done. The chapters will probably be shorter than my other fics. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

 "What seems to be troubling you, Damien?" A woman with frizzy blonde hair that hung close to her head asked from behind her desk. After falling asleep at the breakfast table, arms over his head to shield out the light, a nurse, male, brought him to this office. The woman sat at her desk, he could tell it was her because her picture was on it. It wasn't just her, but she was in most of the pictures.

Humans had a habit of putting their faces on things that were theirs. Their faces and the faces of people they cared about

"Mr. Thorn, do you like being called Mr. Thorn?" The woman asked, folding her hands together on top of her desk. Damien hadn't meet a lot of people behind desks. From what he'd seen on the TV in the living room at Pip's, people who sat at their desks in that way were important.  Her spine was straight, her shoulders square, that was a power stance. Teachers and police officers and parents did that. 

"So what should I call you?"

Damien shrugged his shoulders, then hunched forward. His hair wasn't long enough to hang in front of his face. It used to be before they made him cut it. The Weatherford's didn't like long hair on boys, so when they noticed his was too long, they'd take him into the Dr. Pepper room and cut it with the kitchen scissors. He learned not to fight it.

"Okay, well how about Damien. Damien is a friendly way to address you, and we're friendly, aren't we?" 

Damien shrugged his shoulders again, folding in further on himself. The room was too bright. He considered briefly to climb beneath the chair, to regain strength, but when he was the only one, that was a poor method of camouflage.   
   
"Well, Damien," she sure was saying his name a lot. Was she casting a spell? Was she another demon, trying to snuff him out and tattle to Father? "Damien, my name is Dr. Victoria. I'm your psychiatrist. Do you know why you're here?" 

Damien shrugged. All he was going to do was shrug. He didn't make eye contact as she clucked her tongue twice. Her eyes were on him though, he could feel it. 

"We can go over it, if that'd put you at ease," he didn't even bother to shrug this time. "You tried to kill yourself, do you remember?" 

He was completely still. He didn't try to kill himself. He had given Father a blood offering, but the only blood he had available was his own. He had just wanted to summon Father and let him know he was done with this plane of existence. He hadn't gotten the message, probably because Pip had come home, screaming into the phone. 

"Okay, so you tried to kill yourself. What made you feel that way?" Damien shrugged. "Can you talk? Maybe you could verbally answer my questions. It might make you feel better." 

Damien swallowed, his spit thick. Was he sick? Not that demons got sick, because no way they did, but Father was known to send clues. He was supposed to decode them, but he was never able to. Maybe this place held the secret to his messages. 

"Say something," the doctor said, pulling her hands apart and staring at him. He caught her head cocking out of the corner of his eye. 

He didn't say anything. What if it was a trap? He looked around the room for a keg and hose, turning in his chair. He scanned the tops of the cabinet behind him, below a piece of parchment paper with fancy curse print, and down by her feet. There was no hose. She couldn't punish him, not in the traditional way. 

"Should I call your emergency contact?" She asked, flipping through a big blue binder on her desk. Damien wanted to nod, but he knew better. If you showed excitement towards one idea over another, then that was as good as answering. There would be consequences for bad behavior, there always was. 

"Mr. Phillip Pirrup?" She asked, finger running down the page. "I'm going to put him on speaker, if that's okay?" That's what Damien would have preferred, but again, he was silent. He was silent as she sighed, dialing the numbers with her manicured fingers. Her nails were red, but not a matte, a glossy color. The light shined off of them while she pressed a final button. 

The ring of the phone startled him, more than he'd like to admit. He hadn't used the phone, not once. Any time he'd hear the phone ring, he'd run and hide. That usually meant a new kid was coming, and when he was small, sometimes that kid was bigger. Sometimes, the phone meant someone was leaving. He wasn't ever the one leaving, but he remembered Pip leaving. 

He climbed under the chair, deciding that the danger of the phone was less than the danger of admonishment. Especially if there was no keg. He'd learned fairly early on that demons did in fact need air, and it was extraordinarily hard to breathe when Dr. Pepper was being forced into your face. 

"Hello?" Pip's voice was tinny through the speaker, but loud enough to hear with his hands over his ears and his face in his knees. 

"Hi, Mr. Pirrup?" The doctor asked. Was his name always Pirrup, or did is new family make him change it?

"Yes?" He asked. He sounded pensive. 

"This is Dr. Victoria at the State Hospital-" 

"Is Damien okay? I can be there in twenty minutes? I'll tell my boss I have an emergency and I'll be right down." 

"No, there's no need for that. Feel free to come during visiting hours and see your," she trailed off, "what's your relation to Mr. Thorn?" 

"We're brothers," he said, without missing a beat. "Is he okay?" 

"There are no medical complications, though his bandages do seem to be missing. He's sitting on my office floor, and not answering any of my questions. I was seeking some, um, some clarification." 

"Oh dear," Pip sputtered. Damien didn't move from his spot. He was not the one who removed the bandages, that was his roommates doing. It wasn't new for him to get in trouble for someone else's actions. It seemed to happen quite a bit, and it was especially hard to defend yourself when you weren't allowed to be certain. "That's my fault," he finally said.

"How is it your fault?" The doctor asked. "You can't take responsibility for another person's actions." 

"I, uh," he started, "I taught him that. When he moved in. We came from the same foster family, and he was little. I just wanted him to not get hurt. That's all I wanted." 

"Explain," she said into the speaker. Damien wanted him to explain. Pip taught him the bulk of what he knew about people, and apparently it was bad information. 

"I was 10, so I wasn't particularly clever," he started, hesitating before exhaling and continuing. "Our foster family was awful, they were agnostics, which somehow meant we weren't allowed to be certain, so I taught him to never be certain before I left. He was so little, and his arm was broken, and I didn't want them to spray him with the hose." 

"Alright," she said, standing up and pushing her rolling chair back, to peer at Damien, who had looked up. He had been lied to. Pip, who was his first point of meaningful human contact, had lied to him. No wonder Father wanted the humans to burn. They were worthless, the lot of them.   
"I just wanted him to be safe. He wouldn't stop telling him that he was a demon and they didn't like that, so I told him it was a secret. I shouldn't have told him that, and I know that now. I didn't know what to do, so I did what I thought was right." 

It sounded like he was crying into his phone, which caught Damien off guard. Pip cried a lot, but every time a human was vulnerable in front of him, it hit a nerve. That was something he'd need to get over, in case he was in charge of torture. His face contorted as he wiped at his own eyes, the doctor still watching him. 

"Is he in the room with you? Can he hear me? I'm so sorry, Damien. I just didn't want them to hurt you. You were so little and so sweet. It made me sad that your mother was so mean, and I didn't want anyone else to ever be mean to you again. I shouldn't have lied, but I needed you to understand." 

"Anything you want to say to Pip?" The doctor asked as he wiped his eyes again. The heel of his palms dragged down his cheeks as he repeated the motion over and over. He shook his head. He didn't want to say anything. "Can you say that out loud?" 

"No."


	6. Day One: Lunch

She gave him an antidepressant, even though he wasn't depressed. He didn't tell her he was depressed, in fact, he didn't say hardly anything to her. Pip had done all of the talking, and maybe Pip was still lying. How could he know when Pip was telling the truth and when he was making shit up? 

And to add insult to injury, he wasn't allowed to go back into his room to sleep. They all had to be in the main room until after dinner, so a nurse deposited him at a table. At least he was at this table alone, with a large group of men playing cards away from him. They were loud, though. Loud enough for him to hear with his head buried in his arms. He squeezed his head tighter, hoping to muffle the sound. 

No such luck. 

"Hey, how was your meeting with the shrink? Trying to make yourself small, Not Craig? That's what they do; they make you feel small. That's why you're sitting like that all alone, because they're the worst. Like sharks when blood is in the water. They're the worst. The worst." Tweek rambled. 

"Damien," he spat out. He said it into the table, he realized, slamming the consonants into one big mess. "Damien," he repeated, raising his head off the table. 

"Who's that, Not Craig?" Tweek laughed. "Damien hurt you or something? Damien the reason you come in my hand before you even get a blow job?" He snickered. "He must be really bad in the sack, that Damien." 

Damien kept his face against the table as his cheeks flared. He held out his wristband, shaking his hand in the direction the sound was coming from, until Tweek grabbed his wrist. It scared him at first, the pressure of someone else's finger tips on his skin, but he wasn't going to hurt him. And even if he was going to hurt him, it's not like he was capable. Father would protect him. 

Father just wanted him to learn that all humans were liars. The humans that were nice were liars, too. Maybe those humans were more prone to lying that the typical variant. 

"Is that your wristband? You shouldn't show people this; it lets them know too much about you. I can see when you were born, and your name, Not Craig. Oh, you're just a baby!" His fingers spun the plastic against Damien's wrist. "18? Do you like being 18? I had a lot of fun at 18, before I freaked out my brain." 

Damien didn't reply as Tweek continued to talk. 

"Why would an 18 year old try to kill himself? I get Stan. Stan is a loser, and Stan is probably never going to stop being a loser," there was some heckling in the background. "What? It's true, Stan! You're the most boring dude I've ever met. Don't lie, you are my age but you suck like ten times harder." 

Damien pulled his arm away, hiding it out of Tweek's sight. That didn't stop him from grabbing his wrist, and yanking it back into his line of vision. Damien didn't say anything, he froze in place. 

"I didn't get your name, Not Craig," he said, looking at his wristband again. "Damien, weird name, but okay. My name is Tweek so I guess I can't talk. If I'm Tweek and you're Damien we're kind of the weird name pair here, so we have to stick together," Tweek laughed, snorting a few times as he wheezed. "Maybe the pick roommates by how strange their names are? That is why Stan has to stay with Eric. Eric sucks even harder than Stan, if you can believe it."

"Did it hurt?" He asked, once the laughter had stopped. "Did that hurt?" He traced his fingers up and down the center of Damien's arm, tracing the wound from the blood offering. "It looks like it hurts. How are you not dead? You have two of them right? I think it should have killed you, you're real lucky, you know? I'm not as lucky as you, but still, I can tell you're lucky. Maybe some of your luck will rub off onto me and I'll get a raise or something at work. That'd be nice, huh?" 

"You don't say much, do you?" He asked, dropping his arm back onto the table. A sting of pain reverberated through him, probably a message to stop letting strangers touch him. He was a demon, for fucks sake, not a toy. "That's okay. Sometimes you just don't have much to say. I have plenty to say so I can just say it for you. Don't worry. I can hold up a conversation on my own." 

Damien didn't even get a chance to respond, his head still in his arms, before Tweek started talking again. 

"What do you like to do in your free time?" He asked. "Obviously, you don't have a lot of sex, but I won't tell anyone. Don't worry, your little gay secret is safe with me. Sometimes gay dudes like other gay dudes who don't have experience, they can be into that. Like you can mold them to do whatever you want. I've been dating my boyfriend since we were like ten, funny story there, but we've been dating ever since. I love him a whole lot, but sometimes you get tired of the same penis all the time, and he can be sort of an asshole. Twenty-five years is a long time, isn't it?" 

Damien sighed against the table. He didn't think that demons had sexual orientations. He'd felt a pull to people before, like Pip, and other men, usually blonde, but he just figured that blonde men were in need of corrupting. It was his job to lead humans astray, so of course he'd have a good sense of who needed the leading. 

"Twenty-five years is almost too long." Tweek said, sitting across the table from Damien. "It's almost too long. I want to date someone else, sometimes, but we live together, and he got me my job at Starbucks. You get old and things get complicated, Damien. And then these entities, like Satan man," Damien perked up at mention of his father. "They just, man, they just work to bring you down. Giving out your full name to the gnomes, and all other sorts of bullshit. You don't expect this at 18, you don't." 

Damien sat up straight, watching Tweek's exaggerated hand motions as he explained what the gnomes were and what they did with corpses. He was still as Tweek went into detail on how much work it took for a gnome to pull of your underwear, how their claws left marks in your skin, and how people said they were stretch marks, but it was really an assault from the gnomes. 

"You don't even want to know what happens after they get them off, man," Tweek leaned forward on the table, eyes wide. 

Damien didn't, because it didn't sound like the gnomes were the legion of Satan, anyways. How could they be real? Garden gnomes didn't have joints, much less claws. The Weatherford's had some, and when his foster brothers had played soccer without him before they got home, they had broken one. It shattered into pieces, and it was Damien's job to clean it up. It was a long time ago, he was in the 3rd grade, but he didn't remember any claws, or insides. They only danger in the gnomes was the broken porcelain had nicked his skin and Father had made it hurt.

Damien nodded, anyways. He didn't want to disagree with Tweek. If they were talking, then he was sent by Father to teach him something, so Damien waited for him to spit out some valuable information. 

Instead, he just kept rambling about the gnomes and the value in knowing your full name. 

"Lunch," a man called out, wearing blue scrubs from head to toe. "Everybody in a chair." Tweek stood up, seemingly just to be difficult as the man, tall with black hair pushed a cart through the room. "Okay, you silly goose, sit down," he laughed putting a hand on Tweek shoulder. "Time for lunch. You like lunch don't you." 

"All we do is fucking eat here. Like they're fattening us up for the slaughter. Soylent Green is people!" He screamed, looking around the room. 

"Dude," Stan whispered, taking the seat next to Tweek, shaking his head. "Just sit so we can eat." 

"No, I don't want to be eaten. Some of us enjoy our lives, and aren't so goddamn miserable that they want to be turned into food for the working poor." 

"Yeah! You tell him, spaz!" Eric yelled, waddling over to their table. Kenny, the one who couldn't die, though Damien had a feeling he was lying, followed suit. Two tables of five, with the other table glaring at the ruckus Tweek was causing. 

"Weak," Stan groaned, putting his hands over his face. 

There was a bruise around his neck, purple and red, angry. He got bruises like that from the Weatherford's, well his father gave him bruises so he'd match the other kids. He couldn't stick out. The nail sticking out gets hammered down, that's what they had always said. He didn't stick out, at least he tried not to.

"It's a chicken sandwich, not people, silly," the man lisped. "We're not feeding you people; we're here to make you feel better. I don't think eating people would make me feel better at all," he added, smiling as he dropped a tray in front of every person at the table. 

"But I bet a big fat cock wouldn't hurt, would it," Kenny snickered, scrapping the empty chair next to Damien against the floor. 

"Queer as a three dollar bill," Eric rolled his eyes, unwrapping the sandwich from it's paper sleeve. He bit into it, grimacing, but continued to wolf it down. The whole sandwich was gone in a matter of seconds, and he went into funneling a cup of cling peaches into his mouth.

Damien watched as everyone else began eating. Everyone, except Tweek, who continued screaming about how they were going to feed people, or were going to eat people, or how they were all fascists. The topics changed so quickly that Damien couldn't follow what he was saying. 

No one else seemed to be trying. 

"Okay, I think it's time for you to have a cool down," the nurse said, looking at Tweek. "Do you want to go back to your bed? I think a rest would be good. I'll hold your food until then, or we can have someone bring you a sandwich when you wake up." 

"You're going to eat me!" He screeched, loud enough that the whole room turned and watched as he climbed onto the table, kicking trays onto the ground. Eric quickly grabbed his, though it was just a milk cartoon and bag of chips. Damien, and the others were not so lucky. Their food fell to the ground with a wet plop, cups of peaches and cartons of milk exploding as everyone watched, open mouthed. 

Sometimes new kids would do stuff like this at the Weatherford's. They would break dishes and tear up furniture, and the Weatherford's would calmly pull them aside, into the Dr. Pepper room, and handle it. Usually after the first punishment, they didn't do it anymore. They were only calm about discipline with the new children. The first time someone acted out, they didn't get yelled at, as long as they didn't insinuate knowing anything. 

Damien didn't remember his first time, but he knew he never did anything like this. 

"Okay, we're done now," the nurse said, leaving the cart in the middle of the room and quickly walking to their table and wrapping his arms around Tweek's waist. Tweek thrashed as he was pulled off of the table, digging his heels into the nurse's chest as he yelped about human rights and the food pyramid. 

In one final act of defiance, Tweek twisted his body around, and sunk his teeth into the nurse's wrist. The nurse recoiled as Eric cheered. In the split second he broke away, he scrambled off of the table, and ran straight into the door to the nurses headquarters at full speed. He hit with a thud, falling to the floor where the nurse scooped him into his arms, then pressed a button on his walkie-talkie.

He recited a series of numbers while carrying Tweek back onto his bed. Tweek complained, though his voice wavered. 

"You can't do this, man," he said. "You can't. I have right. Inalienable rights. Unless you don't believe in the Constitution, which means you're a communist. Fucking commie bastard." 

"Sorry everyone, we'll get you new lunches in just a few minutes," the nurse said, adjusting Tweek in his arms. 

"It's gonna be people," Tweek added. 

"It won't be people," the nurse said, frowning. "We don't eat people. That's not something people do to each other." 

"Tell that to Dahmer, fucking freaks!" He yelled, kicking his feet against the nurses arms. Tweek wasn't very big. Compared to another man, he was smaller. He was shorter than Kenny, who wasn't very tall either. Damien felt very tiny in that minute as everyone at his table bent down to salvage what they could from their trays. 

"I don't want it!" Tweek screamed as the locked door to the ward swung open. A nurse, a lady, rushed in with a needle, following the sounds of the protest. Tweek kept shrieking, even after the woman left through the same locked door. 

No one commented on the sounds, and no one said anything when they stopped. They just ate their food, what was left of it, and kept their eyes trained on the table. New trays never came, but no one said anything. They ate in silence, with Damien careful to make sure he wasn't crunching his chips too loud.

He didn't want to be the nosiest one at lunch, and with Tweek gone, it could have been anyone. 

What happened to Tweek seemed a lot like the Dr. Pepper room. He'd never liked shots, and by the way Tweek's screaming had just stopped, it must have been painful. Not that he felt pain, because he didn't. Damien didn't feel pain, he told himself as he drank the milk that didn't spill onto the floor.

"Jesus," Stan said, voice close to a whisper as it always was. He was the first to break the silence.

"I know, right," Eric laughed, taking Tweek's chips from the floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are nice. I like to hear what you liked and what you didn't.


	7. Day One: Visitation

They were in the main room, sitting at the same tables they ate lunch. Damien eavesdropped, as Tweek, the only person who talked to him, slept in their room. He assumed it was sleeping, but maybe he was awake, tied to the bed. It didn't seem beyond the realm of possibility after the screaming he had heard, followed by the low voice of a nurse telling him to restrain himself. 

Tweek didn't seem very good at being a human. Sometimes, Damien would see who was bad at it, and he'd approach them, just soaking in their contact. What if they weren't really a person, either? He would hang around in the background at school, monitoring a few different kids, waiting for one to slip up and say they weren't from here. 

No one ever had, but maybe Tweek would. 

The rest of these people, they seemed normal enough. They weren't great at it, but they fit within the parameters of what humans did. They didn't yell too often, but they were loud. Loudness was acceptable, but not screaming. They had just memorized these intrinsic rules as they played cards. 

They were mean to each other, throwing taunts about how stupid someone was, or how they were the smartest. No one seemed mad though. Occasionally someone would toss their cards, spring from their seat, and shake their heads. But instead of screaming, they'd just roll their eyes and sit down for the next game.

Almost everyone else was playing a human card game, one that Damien didn't know. He didn't think that it was important for his eventual spot at his father's side. Instead, he sat back and listened. Memorization of human behavior was much more useful than games.The men talked about medication and about how they wanted out. Every single man agreed that they wanted to leave the ward, that they missed real food, booze, and sunlight. They lamented how they missed people, with long pauses in between statements.

When anyone would mention visitation, even in passing, it would go quiet. It was only for a moment, but for that moment, it was an electric silence, followed with what sounded to Damien like human bragging. He sat in his chair as cards were thrown at the table, and men loudly announced who was visiting them. Everyone claimed another person would be here at 4:30. 

Damien looked up at the oversize clock, and unless he had forgotten how to tell time on this planet, it was 4:15. He gulped, deciding against anymore eavesdropped. He wasn't going to have anyone, he doubted. 

And even if he did, it'd only be Pip. Pip was a filthy liar, just like all the other people. He wasn't a savior or an exception. He was just as deceitful, if not more so. Other people didn't lie to him about their customs. They didn't create false narratives and sell them as fact.

"I hate, nnn, hate shots." Damien flicked his eyes in the direction of the statement. It was Tweek, his head nodding and then snapping back up, like a child struggling to stay awake. He didn't ask if he could sit next to Damien; he just plopped down. 

Humans usually asked, from his experience. 

Tick one for not human."Oh! Not Craig! It's almost time for people. My person is coming, because if he doesn't, there will be consequences. I know his full name, and I'll tell. I'll tell them if he doesn't visit me." Damien didn't acknowledge Tweek's statement. He didn't acknowledge the nurse announcing visitation, either. 

He did toss around the implications of who Tweek would tell and what they'd do. Maybe he could be a vessel to communicate with Father, if he did really have beings he could tell. If he really had those things, then Damien should ask.But before Damien could speak, Tweek was talking.  

"My person is coming, I think. He said he'd come on the phone," Tweek said, slumped over in his chair. Briefly, as the people started to file into the room, Damien considered crawling under the table. But then he'd be in kicking distance from these people, these strangers, and he didn't want that either. 

In fact, he didn't want to be close to them at all. He pulled his feet into his chair, wrapping his arms around his shins and tucking his chin into his knees. 

Once everyone filed in next to their respective person, Damien was still alone. 

Which was fine. Humans were filthy liars. He didn't need Pip, anyways. 

He just needed to be left alone as these strangers mingled with their loved ones. Maybe he'd even learn something about humans and how they behaved. 

"Craig!" Tweek yelled, jumping to his feet and throwing himself at the man. His arms wrapped around his neck, and they kissed. It was longer than most kisses Damien had ever seen, with the man's hands on the small of Tweek's back. Was he grabbing his ass? 

Judging by the squeal, he was. 

"You're such an idiot," the man growled, sliding his hand down Tweek's calf. Damien didn't know if this is what couples did in this sort of situation. He'd only really ever watched Estella and Pip, and they'd never been in this situation. Not that Pip told Damien. 

But Pip was a filthy liar, so maybe he did grab her like that. 

"I'm not, fucker," Tweek spat. He coughed, letting something rumble around in his throat, and he spat right in Craig's face. "Don't call me that." That was not something he'd ever seen a human do. Not even watching TV at Pip's house, and the people on TV did some stupid things.

"Fucking sick! Goddamn it!" The man dropped Tweek onto the ground, as Damien hugged his legs a little bit tighter. "What the fuck are you, a camel?" 

"I'm a person, ass wipe. I'm a person, and you should treat me like a person. I'm your boyfriend, and that makes me the best person! I'm the best person you're ever gonna get!" 

Damien didn't know how true that was, but he watched curiously, anyways. Getting up to leave would draw too much attention to himself, and he wasn't even sure he had a hiding place. 

"You spat at me. People don't spit at people," the man said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

"I'm a people," Tweek stood on his tip toes, placing a kiss on the tip of the man's nose and wiping away the spit with the sleeve of his shirt. "I'm a people, I think." 

"God, not this again," the man said, sinking down into an empty chair next to Damien. "You are a person." 

"But what if I'm not?" Tweek mumbled, crawling into his lap. He wrapped himself around him, like a scarf, or a blanket. He was liquid, and Damien was a stone in his seat. "What if I'm not? What if I was, and then it got changed? Do you think they can just change that? Can they changed it, Craig?" 

"No," Craig, groaned. "No one can change it. Are you listening to your doctor? I can't do this, I can't." 

"But what if I'm not?" Tweek moan, burying his head in Craig's shirt. "What if they've swapped me? What if I'm not me, and you're not you? What if everything is a lie and that's not even Not Craig!" Tweek screamed, reaching out an arm and grabbing Damien by the collar of a shirt that wasn't even his. 

It was Pip's shirt, and Pip wasn't here. Damien swallowed down the lump in his throat as Craig peeled his hand away. He didn't like letting humans touch him. They were unpredictable. Maybe Tweek would touch his dick again, or maybe he'd bust his teeth out on the stairs. It was impossible to tell. 

"Not Craig?" 

"Not Craig is my roommate. He is not Craig," Tweek parroted, looking up from Craig's chest. "That's why that's his name." 

"Bunch of fucking lunatics," Craig sighed, shaking his head as Tweek slid out of his lap. 

"Tell him hi," Tweek said. "Be polite. If you are a person, you'd be nice. My Craig," he emphasized the name as Damien squeezed his eyes shut. "My Craig, he'd say hi. If you aren't him, then you have to leave." 

"Hi, not Craig." 

Damien didn't not respond. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," a blonde man said rushing into the room. Pip. Pip had decided to show up, after Tweek had touched him, and he had the gall to touch him, too."Is that your person, Not Craig?" Tweek asked. "He's cute, I guess," Craig said. Damien felt anger bubble in his throat as the two of them made idle chatter about Pips ass and the way his jeans hugged his thighs. He doesn't know why he is angry, but he can feel it flare up into his face.

"I can tell, that's the one you want to give you a blow job," Tweek said, smiling. He could feel Pip's hand squeeze tighter on his shoulder, his blunt nails digging in through the cotton. 

"We are brothers," Pip said. He might have sounded cheerful to them, but to Damien he just sounded like a deceitful traitor. His happiness was probably a lie, like everything else he did was. 

"So you want to fuck your brother?" Tweek asked, following it with a laugh. "That's fucked up." 

Damien didn't answer. He just shrugged his shoulders. He shrugged until Pip removed his hand, and sat across the table from him. Damien didn't look, but he could hear what sounded like kissing from Tweek and Craig. It was the same kind of noise that came from behind Pip's door when Estella was over, down to the giggling. 

He just looked down at the table. It was off white, but part of the lacquer had been chipped away, showing the brown wood underneath. He picked at the white, as he felt Pip smiling at him. 

That's all Pip did. He just sat there and smiled. It was the one trick he knew how to do, Damien decided. He lied and he smiled. He was just another person. That's how all people were.

"Is it nice here?" Pip asked. He sounded cheerful, because of course he did. It was like Pip was blind to the mood of the room. These people weren't happy; it wasn't nice. Happy people didn't talk to each other in hushed tones and cry. There was a lot of background noise, and the only noise that could be confused for joy were the giggles from Tweek. 

And that wasn't joy, Damien didn't think. That was something else that he couldn't quite place. 

"Well, I hope you are learning something. Are they helping you? I read an article, and it said that this was the right decision. That staying here, chap, that's a good decision. I just want you to know that I'm proud of you. This is hard, I know, but it'll pay off." 

Damien rolled his eyes, flaking off another piece of table in his fingers. Pip didn't mean anything he said. He was just lying. He was a liar, and he was lying.

"Don't do that, please," Pip said. Damien didn't look up, he just rolled his eyes, again, and picked off more table. "Don't be mad. We're brothers and I'm sorry you're upset. Being upset isn't productive, though. It's not going to help you get better to hold a grudge." 

Damien didn't think it could hurt. He jumped when Pip grabbed his hand, pulling it off of the table. When he finally looked up, Pip had tears in his eyes. Damien furrowed his brow; he had sounded so happy just a few moments ago. 

"I am sorry, Damien," Pip said as he held eye contact. It felt wrong to look at him so long, but he knew that Pip had his hand, and if he wanted to crush it or break it, he could. Not that Damien was susceptible to human pain. Father would break his hand, if Pip squeezed too hard, just so that he could keep his cover.

He didn't want anymore lessons from Father, so he kept looking, even though it made him feel frightened. 

"Please listen to me," Pip sighed, pulling Damien's hand further across the table. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted you to be safe." Damien kept staring, wide eyed. Maybe Pip was a powerful human, despite what he thought. He had powerful deception skills, and that had to count for something as far as humans went. 

"Say something?" Pip asked, using both hands to hold Damien's hand in place. 

"Something," he stuttered out. What was he supposed to say? When Pip lowered his shoulders and pulled back his hands, Damien was fairly certain he had said the right thing. Direct orders were to be followed, even ones that were in regards to speech. 

Maybe not following those orders was what had caused him to be outcast by the humans. Maybe with this newfound information he could integrate with the humans, and then Father would be proud. He'd be so proud that he'd get to go to Hell, where he belonged. 

"Damien, honey," he recoiled at the word. It didn't sound right coming from Pip's mouth now. Not now that he knew he had feed him a lie his whole life. He had built his whole understanding of humans on a lie, and it was all Pip's fault. "Damien, I know you're upset, but I just want to make sure you feel better. You're not still wanting to, you know," Pip paused, moving his hands up and down. 

"I don't know," Damien said, as coldly as he could.

"You don't still want to kill yourself?" Pip whispered, ghosting his hand over Damien's wrist. 

"It's impossible to be certain," he hissed. Pip had misled him, and he was angry. How dare he ask him direct questions after he'd given him faulty information. Bad intel he'd based his whole damn life on. 

"Damien, honey." 

His voice was too sweet. It was cloying and Damien felt heat rise up to his eyes. He screamed.

"I never wanted to kill myself!" Damien shouted. He was being loud like the other humans were, because that was something that was true. "I wanted to visit Father!" 

"Damien," Pip grabbed for him as he pushed out of the chair. The chair toppled to the ground with a clatter as Damien made a beeline for the room he wasn't supposed to be in during the day. What were they going to do? Punish him? 

Wasn't being here the punishment? 

It felt like it was. He'd rather be sprayed with the damn hose, or be sent into the hallway, than to be trapped in this place. Let them punish him. He doubted that they could find something worse than here. He climbed beneath his bed, sliding until his shoulder and thigh were flush with the wall. 

"Damien! This isn't very mature, and you know that," Pip said. The bed creaked as his weight settled on it, and part of it dipped down, nearly touching Damien. It'd be fine if it did. He could be crushed by a twin size bed while in the hospital.

He was sure Father would be disappointed, but he was always disappointed anyway. He never lived up to his expectations, because here he was, still on Earth. Why keep working for a goal that's unattainable. 

"Hun, I think it's time to give him some space." 

Good riddance, Damien thought as Pip left. Damien made a note about his ass and his jeans, just to try to put into perspective what Tweek and Craig were talking about. That was the only reason that he watched as Pip walked out of the room. 


End file.
